The Fourth Age: Rise of the Elves
by Seiras Makenna
Summary: Sauron has been defeated, and the Wood of Greenleaves purified. But a plot has been brewing during this peace, and the friendship between Lothlórien and the Woodland Realm may soon be shattered when a vacant throne is taken.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Time is a tapestry, eternally weaving itself through the darkness of reality. Ages come and pass. Peace is broken, wars break out; people are born and people die. It has been so since Ilúvatar's angelic choir sang the World into being in the vast emptiness.

The choir walked the Earth, sometimes unclad and invisible, and sometimes in great and beautiful shapes, raising the mountains and hollowing the oceans. The stars were set in the sky, and the flowers were taught to grow, and eventually the Sun and the Moon were wrought and began their cycle.

From the first raindrop to the first bloom, all was designed by the most powerful of Ilúvatar's choir – the Valar; seven Kings and seven Queens, the High Ones of the World. Among these were the Exalted, the eight most powerful of their number, including the High King Manwë and his queen, Varda.

But within the walls of the Halls of Mandos, home of the spirits of the dead on the western coast of the Blessed Realm, facing out towards the endless sea, sat Vairë. Solemn and sober, she sat in her splendid chamber with her delicate hands on her loom, weaving.

Vairë, wife of Námo, Lord of the Dead, spent each of her days weaving the tales of the World in her storied webs. All along the halls and corridors, the marble walls were lined with her tapestries, depicting the great histories of the Earth. In the first chamber, the trail of fabrics, woven in ages long past by Vairë's hand, began, with the depiction of the creation of the Ainur from the mind of Ilúvatar.

The story went on. The rebellion of the excommunicated King of the Valar Melkor, who was later named Morgoth, the Dark Lord. How he corrupted the Theme that created the World, and how he waged war against his peers, breeding fell beasts and creatures of the night. How he took young Elves and tortured them, creating the Ork race, vile and bloodthirsty, with slanted eyes and black skin and fanged jaws.

But other tapestries showed more ferocious servants. Members of his own order Morgoth had swayed to his cause of domination, possessing the bodies of great wolves and giant bats. But the most fearsome of all were not woven nearly to the detail that the others were.

They were tall, far taller than the Children of Ilúvatar, and made of shadow, and shrouded in fire, wielding flaming weapons and whips with powerful arms. They were the Demons of Might, named the _Valaraucar _in Quenya, but otherwise known as the Balrogs.

Vairë had spent weeks on end on each of her creations. Of such beauty and finesse were they that the dead, some weeping for their departure from the World, smiled to look upon them. But the Balrogs had taken her but days to weave, for among the servants of Morgoth, they most filled the Weaver's pure heart with terror. In the centre stood their first lord, who had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with Morgoth's lieutenant, Sauron, Lord of Werewolves. He was named Kosomot, and it was said that even Sauron had feared him, and was ever jealous of his power.

Following Morgoth's first capture, his forces scattered to await his return, hiding in the dark places of the World and in the haunted forests of the North. What became of the Werewolves and the Vampires after Morgoth's final defeat, none know, but many of the Balrogs had fallen into a long slumber, longing to be awoken.

Sauron eventually fell, and his forces scattered. But he had not reawoken the Balrogs. The Wise had long feared that Sauron would locate the Demons of Might and recruit them in his services. But Sauron never did so. The Lady Galadriel believed that the second Dark Lord feared them too much to return them.

And, so, Kosomot's location went unknown to the Free Peoples of the West, who had long since forgotten about him and his vast power. He remained in a long slumber, which was soon to be disturbed.

Vairë sat in her small throne, weaving.


	2. Chapter 1 (Celeborn)

Chapter 1

Celeborn

With the downfall of Sauron, Mirkwood was freed from the darkness laid upon it. Once again, the tall trees' leaves were the colour of emerald and deep gold in the Spring and Summer months, and turned crisp and brown and blanketed the green-grassed ground in the Autumn. The last of the spider-spawn of Ungoliant the Gloomweaver were slain by the keen eyes and arrows of the Elves of the Woodland Realm, and grey rabbits and quaint deer emerged from their hiding places. The sunshine, which had been exiled from the forest by the evil presence of the forest, once again shone through the canopy of leaves and revitalised the delicate plants and herbs descended from plants grown in shadow. The walls of the great Tower of Sorcery were thrown down by the powers of the Lady Galadriel, and the forest was home to the small abodes of the Elves and Woodmen and Skin-changers. The Forest of Great Fear was renamed Eryn Lasgalen, or the Wood of Greenleaves.

The golden wood of Lothlórien to the west, ruled by Celeborn the Wise, whose wife the Lady Galadriel had long since sailed to the Land Beyond the Sea, took the land around the site of Dol Guldur as easternmost borders of their realm. The Lord Celeborn, tall and princely, with silver hair and solemn eyes and clad in white and grey, sat in one of the two thrones in the city of Caras Galadhon. His eyes, which had once sparkled as the starlight his hair so resembled, had become grey and tired. Over the long years since Galadriel's departure, the life of the wood and its people had grown less bright. The golden light had grown less so, and the songs of the Elves, that had once brought peace and joy to their Lord and Lady, were now subdued and sorrowful, and served only to remind Lord Celeborn of days long since past; a time when his people had walked the woods with joyful hearts and sung amongst the golden blooms and silver trees.

It was an Autumn afternoon that Haldir had risen to the House of the Lord, nestled in the tallest tree's branches. Celeborn's eyes turned towards him. He had been looking across the landscape, as he usually did, and had not heard Haldir's footsteps until he had reached his chamber. Haldir, dressed in fading green, bowed low.

"My Lord," he greeted, in the Silvan tongue most commonly used among the Galadhrim who remained. His brothers arrived behind him, and they, too, bowed. The three seemed agitated, behaviour that the Lord had not recognised for some time.

"Speak, Haldir," Celeborn bid him. His tone was reserved, worn, almost weary, fading as the beauty of the woods. He rose slowly from his silver chair. "Your demeanour leaves your Lord worried."

"My Lord is aware that my brothers and I continue to watch the borders of our beloved realm," the warden said. "We've become aware of a dark presence in the wood."

Celeborn leant against the balcony of the flet, gazing over the landscape. "A dark presence, you say? I have felt none."

Haldir and his two brothers looked at one another. "A small band of Great Wolves, heading east, we believe. It has been long since we have seen such foul beasts, and I count it not unwise to state that we believed these creatures to be all but extinct. Yet we saw them, heading towards the eastern border. We believe that they may have come down from the Misty Mountains, although from where we cannot say with any certitude."

Celeborn's hands gripped the balcony hard and he felt his eyes lose their focus for but a moment. "Haldir," he managed to say. "I must question this news that you present to your Lord. No Werewolf has been encountered by any of any race for centuries now, it must be. My great-grandson sits on the throne of the Reunited Kingdom and sends me news every year, and I have heard no tell of Werewolves. My grandsons have travelled Middle-earth for decades and advised me that all of Morgoth's dark spawn had been destroyed. Even Thranduil in his halls in the Woodland Realm has sent word, from time to time, of any possible dangers. And, yet, I now have you three telling me that a pack of Werewolves run unchecked through my own kingdom, without my knowledge."

He turned back towards the brothers, still leaning against the balcony. "The name of Celeborn the Wise is one well-deserved by my Lord," Haldir said, averting his eyes slightly. "He has led us for centuries, to peace and prosperous times. But I must say that my brothers and I do not doubt what our eyes have perceived."

Celeborn's vision blurred again. He felt himself slump backwards, almost losing his balance. Haldir arrived quickly at his side, lifting him up. "My Lord?" he asked.

"I am fine, thank you, Haldir," Celeborn replied. The brothers escorted him to his seat, beside that that Galadriel had once sat. "Please, speak not of my affliction."

"Affliction, my Lord?" Haldir inquired. "We of the Eldar are seldom affected by–"

"I am well aware, Haldir, for I have lived many ages longer than you and your brothers here," Celeborn said. Against his will, he found himself cradling his head in his hands, his long white fingers running through his fine silver hair. "As the wood has faded, so do I seem to be. The leaves of the trees die. The flowers wilt. Life under the trees darken..."

"My Lord..." Haldir began. Celeborn removed his hands and looked into the youthful eyes of the young Silvan Elf, whose hair shone as the sunlight once had. "I understand not your troubles. Lothlórien stands as strong and beautiful as ever, as does its Lord. The Galadhrim live happily under your rule, and where the singing should have quietened due to the departure of some to the West, it has only grown more beautiful by those that remain out of love for this land. I can assure you, Lord Celeborn, that naught has faded in this wood but the poetry that the Lady Galadriel once recited, that we all so dearly miss."

Celeborn thought back to his earliest days in Lothlórien, when Galadriel and he had first arrived and began their home here. The memory of the splendour of the woods gave him strength. He stood from his chair and rose to his full height, his hair and eyes seeming to grow more alive to the three brothers, and his greying robes again seemed white.

"Werewolves, you say?" he said. "I would be unfit to be known as 'the Wise' if I did not take immediate action." Haldir and his brothers smiled and bowed once again. It had been many long years since such vigour had been seen in their Lord by any of the Galadhrim. "I wish not to disturb the peace of my people, and, so, I shall lead us against these creatures. We shall take only a small group of our finest archers. If you would gather such a force, Orophin."

One of the brothers nodded and descended the wooden stairs and silver ladder that reached down to the ground.

"Rúmil," Celeborn said. The second brother stood to attention. "Please collect my blade, and then have this news delivered to King Thranduil in the Woodland Realm, and to the Beornings in the east." Rúmil nodded and left. "And, Haldir, you would not have left the Werewolves and come to me if you were able to stay on their trail. I assume that you were unable to follow them?"

"You are correct, my Lord," Haldir said. "We followed them to the Wood of Greenleaves, to that land that is now part of the Galadhrim kingdom. But we found ourselves unable to track them."

Celeborn thought for a moment. "I believe that I may be able to locate them. Please, follow me, Haldir. I shall suffer no threat to the peace that this land has enjoyed for so many years. So long as I am Lord of Lothlórien, no danger shall be permitted to wander my lands."

7


	3. Chapter 2 (Haldir)

Chapter 2  
Haldir

Haldir had been born in Lothlórien, as had Rúmil and Orophin. The three had the same flowing, golden hair and flawless skin, and the same grey eyes. The three had lived amongst the trees of the Golden Wood with their mother and father, who had long since departed into the West, but the three remained. But this was where their similarities ended. For while all three loved their home and the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, and it was this love that led to them becoming marchwardens of the eaves, Haldir had dreamt since he was young of exploring the lands outside of the fences. While patrolling the borders one day, Haldir had strayed from his course and followed the river Celebrant towards the eastern gates of Hadhodrond, the greatest of Dwarven mines. As night fell upon the land and the light of the stars shone in the waters of the Lake of Looking-glass, he beheld its beauty, and the lost splendour of Durin's Stone upon its bank.

Hadhodrond, also known as the Black Pit, or Moria, had long been home to an innumerable number of Orks who worshipped a great Balrog there that had slept there since Morgoth's flight from his fortress. But in his foolishness, the young Haldir had undertaken the expedition, longing for adventure and new sights. He had only his bow and a quiver of arrows, and had, by the time he had arrived at the Lake, long since forgotten about the dangers that lurked at the mines' gates and in the Mountains of Mist.

As Haldir followed Lord Celeborn through the wood, he touched his shoulder, where his centuries-old wound was, recalling his foolishness in his youth. It had been a small rabble of lesser Orks who'd been patrolling the areas around the gate. They had long been renowned for preventing travel through the Mountains, and, thinking of it now, Haldir thought that perhaps they had been given that task by Sauron. Regardless, he would have certainly been slain had a few Elves of Lothlórien not arrived. With arrow and blade, they slew the Orks and rescued Haldir, who had suffered several injuries including the stab wound to his shoulder. He had been taken back to the Golden Wood, though he had no recollection of the journey back.

Among the Elves had been his brothers and his father, who later told him that he had been saved only as a result of the Lady Galadriel's foresight. She had foreseen the attack, and dispatched the Elves to save him and bring him to be healed. Haldir later humbly apologised to and thanked Galadriel on bended knee, and looked up to find her smiling.

"I too was once as yourself," she told him. "And my own desires led me to exile from the Blessed Realm. I accept your thanks, yet not your apology. It would be wrong of me to do so. However, I must counsel against your actions. As they have led me to be barred from returning to my homeland, they shall lead you into danger should proper preparation and consideration not be taken."

He had wondered at the wisdom, the mystery, and the power of the Lady of Light, and, as though she had peered into his mind and heard its words, she had told him that he had the Mirror of Galadriel to thank for his rescue.

Lord Celeborn approached a sunlit grove, which had an air of austerity and great age. There stood a simple basin, filled with water. Celeborn ran his hands over the sides of the basin, and Haldir, as he approached slowly, supposed that Galadriel was, too, on his mind. This must be the Mirror, he surmised.

"The Mirror of Galadiel," Celeborn confirmed. "A most remarkable tool, able to show the beholder that which has past, that which shall pass, and that which passes even as we speak." He touched the surface of the water lightly with his palm and fingers. Haldir stepped up to the basin, looking down into the water.

"And this is how you will find the Wolves, my Lord?" he asked.

"It is how _you_ will, Haldir," he told him, placing his hand on his shoulder.


	4. Chapter 3 (Thranduil)

Chapter 3  
Thranduil

The Woodland Realm lay on the north-eastern border of the Wood of Greenleaves, many leagues from the Golden Wood. Where Lothlórien was gold and full of sunshine, the Woodland Realm was verdant and glowed with a soft light. Streams ran from the Dark Mountains in the south and the Iron Mountains in the north, under the beech trees and to the hidden capital of the kingdom. Through gates beside the riverside lay the proud city; winding staircases and vast halls beautifully carved from living rock, most unlike the cold, claustrophobic caverns of the Dwarven people.

Thranduil, the king of the Elves of the Greenleaves, sat in his high-ceilinged hall of tall pillars, a crown of flowers atop his molten gold head. His raiment was green and trimmed with white, and his grey eyes were mighty and full of wisdom. But there was also life in those eyes, unchanged by the fading of the Elves that had stricken most of the Eldar who remained. And he gave hope to his people; reassurance of the people's continued prospering.

From the open gates ran a small Elf child, clad in green and grey, and with fair hair and bright eyes. Thranduil saw the boy, and got to his feet, a smile shining on his face.

"And who is that young Elf-prince I see striding into my halls? I do hope he is not here for my throne, for surely I cannot best one of such might," he said. The boy stopped running, reaching the king, and looking up at him with a smile of equal brightness.

"Don't jest, Grandfather," he said. "For one day, all the forces of darkness will quail before Prince Laurëlas of the Woodland Realm." Thranduil bent down and picked up his grandson, spinning him around and holding him close.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, my princeling," he said. "But there's little darkness left in the world to quail before you. When you sit upon my throne, it will not be to lead into battle as your grandfather did, but to preserve what those that have come before you have fought to make." Laurëlas looked down, his smile faltering a little. "And that is the most important task," he added. "Surely you would not sorrow at the peace that many Elven lives have been lost for?"

Laurëlas met his grandfather's eyes again. "Of course not, Grandfather," he said, holding on tighter. "When I am king, I will make sure that the losses of our kind against the Enemy are remembered. My smile faded only because I remembered the dream that I had this night..."

Thranduil's face became sombre and concerned, and he sat down in his throne, setting Laurëlas on his knee. "What dream, my prince?" he asked. "What troubled your rest?"

Laurëlas's hand moved to the brooch clasped at his chest, given to him by his mother before she rode east on the Mission of the Elves of Middle-earth.

The Mission was one that was devised by the last Elven lords of Middle-earth. Thranduil travelled south to East Lórien with his sons and daughter, and met Glorfindel of Rivendell; and Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of Elrond Halfelven, who sailed west at the end of the Third Age; and Círdan the Shipwright, the Master of the Grey Havens; and Lord Gelmir of Forlindon, who ruled his land from the island of Himring several miles from the coast; and Carmeril, the Lady of Roses, who led the Elves of Harlindon; and finally Galdor of the Galadhrim, representative of Lord Celeborn, who would not leave his city for reasons unknown. Laurëlas had begged his mother to take him, and she finally relented, for he had long desired ever since he had learnt to speak to explore the reaches of the Wood.

At that council, raised was the matter of the Avari, the Elves who had never entered Middle-earth. These Elves, known as the Unwilling, had refused to travel to the Westlands, instead remaining in the east. And the Elf-lords discussed how the time of their kind was ending, and that, ere their kind faded altogether or departed for Valinor, they should reunite with their kindred of the lands of the east and to discover their fate, that they might return with them to the west. Gelmir of Forlindon, Laurëlas remembered, had been most against it, naming the Unwilling also the Unworthy, and that he did not trust those who would not accept the offer of the Valar all those ages ago. But eventually, the Mission was decided, and a host of Elves was to travel east, past the Wood of Greenleaves and the Brown Lands to the south, and past the Sea of Rhûn to the uncharted lands beyond. And Laurëlas's mother had chosen to go.

"My prince," Thranduil said, waking him from his thoughts. "Speak to me."

Laurëlas sighed. "I dreamt of... wolves. Black and huge, with bloody jaws and powerful feet. And they were storming a forest," he told him, and it was as though he was experiencing the dream again, even as he sat there. "There was nothing but evil and darkness in their eyes, Grandfather. And they were not wolves. I know that they were not."

"What do you mean?" Thranduil asked, his brow furrowed and his interest creasing his forehead.

"There is no creature that could feel such... such hatred," he answered, his voice lowered in fear. "They were not wolves, but evil creatures. Right out of the tales, Grandfather."

Thranduil, with his light fingers, turned Laurëlas's face back to face his. "Listen, my boy," he said calmly. "There is no need for fear. For if this dream does have some measure of foresight, then I will surely defend our lands against this threat."


End file.
